


A cure for heartache and sore throats

by SaintSaens



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Consequences, Curses, Emotions, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22393420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintSaens/pseuds/SaintSaens
Summary: Jaskier has been roaming the paths, alone and wondering. After Geralt, he has yet to find an anchor in this world.And he wants to let it go, he can understand how sometimes, Times don't align for people's lives.He wants deeply to be the better man; to let it go.But even the great Yennefer can't do much against the in-laid consequences of a Djinn curse, and when Jaskier's throat acts up again, there isn't a lot he can do to forget that part of his life... so he bares it, as best as he can.(which is not a lot)Or : Jaskier deals on hiw own with the consequences of the curse, succeeds somewhat, until he crosses path again with the same people he just wanted to forget. And then it all goes downhill from there. Or some such.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 3
Kudos: 182





	A cure for heartache and sore throats

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed to take that out, because consequences for actions are a thing.  
> If you've clicked, I hope you'll somewhat enjoy it. I don't know if the summary does at all justice to this piece of writing (I didn't even think about one until...well now that I had to post it.) It might change. There might be updates and corrections later on. Right now, it's off to sleep for me! 
> 
> Have a good read, and even if you don't, I wish you at least a good day/night/time of life <3

"Hey, Bard! Care for another song or two?" 

A pouch of coins hits the table where Jaskier is dejectedly sitting. In the middle of the overfilled, and quite inebriated, tavern, the lack of music doesn't seem to be noticed by a lot of customers. 

But you just need the one. And Jaskier looks up from his lute, blinking. It's already late, and the moon is high in the empty sky. 

"Come on, Bard! An encore for the famous White Wolf" Someone exclaims again. 

"I want my money's worth, bardling!" The woman who called to him first is leaning heavily against her friend, clearly half drunk already. They all seem easy-going, and quite a raucous bunch too, crowded as they are on the table next to Jaskier. 

Jaskier looks back at the pouch and swallows. He has sang all his ballads and his jigs, his tales and romances. He has sang the Witcher's deeds twice over under the excitement of the listeners, to his own despair. And his throat...The night couldn't ended soon enough for him now. 

His fingers tighten against his instrument. 

"I'm afraid you'll have to be content with that for the night, dear lady" He scratches out, aiming for a smile. His voice breaks over the last syllables and he winces instead. The woman is frowning, and usually Jaskier would feel bad and start a small song to ease her, compliment her on her spirit and manners, because that wouldn't do to leave someone wanting, would it. And he hates to leave people downhearted when they just look so honestly happy as the woman had. 

But the pain has started to grow already, and if he has to speak again he knows he won't be able to handle it. He gets up, shoulders his lute and picks up the pouch. 

"Maybe another night yeah?" He hands the pouch back to the woman in a whisper. She eyes him and snatches the coins away, dismissively. As he leaves he can hear her words "As if he can afford to be picky. He's no better than any one here, can't barely afford to pay for the food." Jaskier doesn't turn around, he can't, although he would love to prove her wrong. 

She's right, of course. He can't really afford to, not anymore. But there are some nights, he just can't. 

Who do they think he is? He is a bard, for god'sake. He aims to please. He lives for the entertainment. For the small smiles, the teary eyes, the waves his music brings to the people, no matter who they are, where they come from. For the revelations in a man's eyes as he listens to a ballad, the sigh out of a girl's mouth as she hears of past lives. For the hope. He lives for the hope he gives, and they give him in return. 

"He doesn't even sing that well anyway, I was expecting better" he hears someone reply to the woman. The bard wants to laugh, although he only manages to choke on his saliva. 

That seems to be a motif with him. 

As he goes up the steps of the inn, waving to the tavern owner, Jaskier can't decide if the bitterness in his mouth is because of the tang of resentment toward these people who think they can judge him without knowing him, these people who bicker because they can't appreciate the hardship it was for him to turn such a cold run-down place into a welcoming hold to enter with just a few notes of music and one or two sweet and cheeky words, or because his throat is acting up again. 

He halfheartedly hopes it's just the bitterness.   
(but no matter what people say about him, he might be naive, he might be overly optimistic, but he's not a fool. And deep downs, Jaskier knows.) 

\- - - -

When he wakes up the next day, he realizes two things. First, that's it's raining like pissing pigs outside. Second, that he doesn't have any more Verbena left. And his throat is killing him again. 

Mechanically,his hand goes to touch his throat, although he knows damn well it won't help. Never had. And yet, when his fingers don't find any swelling, his heart slows a bit. It's stupid, it wouldn't swell again. He has asked around, and he knows. Every single doctor and specialist he has talked to has told him as such. Even if he were to catch something like a common human disease, there was no reason for it to swell like that again.

Unless he were to fuck with another magical being, that much they all agree one. But that was out of the question now for him. There are no witchers to follow around, so there's that. 

He tries to think it's a good thing, really, although he never did manage to find a conclusive argument in the favor of that train of thought. Sure, he's somewhat safe now. But...Magical beings, stories of oppressed entities running free and opposing what destiny has set them to be, or better, destiny making them into their best existence, the White wolf... that's his trade. That's what he is known for. 

He hasn't been very productive on those accounts in the past year unfortunately. 

Jaskier swallows, and it sends a spike of hot flames down his throat.He rubs absently at it for a bit and breathes through the pain, although that doesn't help the heaviness in his lungs either. So he closes his eyes instead. To get through. He needs to let it go. He knows very well he needs to. And yet. 

For some reasons he doesn't want to dwell on, it's always more difficult to leave this peculiar brand of regret behind when his throat acts up. 

So, he tries to focus on something else. Because his throat is hurting. And he hasn't any Verbena left. 

Jaskier fishes under his pillow and catches the leather of his pouch. When he upends it in front of him, he has to stop himself from sighing. Money is short in those periods (when isn't it?), but he can't pass up on the herb. So he counts. Could be worse. He can afford a few bottles and still have enough for a meal. But not for a room again. He sighs then. He just has to hope he can work again tonight. 

(the cough that initiates seems to be there just to be contradictory.)

\- - - -

As he leaves the inn, he sees the group of the previous night sleeping like babies at their tables. The tavern is back to its old cold and greasy self, and the spell he had taken such a great care to wove over the souls last night has slowly dissipated. That's what happens, when people leave where they've warmed their hearts up, Jaskier reckons, they take a bit of it home with them. He isn't obtuse enough to think he will be in any shape to recreate tonight what he did yesterday. He just hopes the people who were there will enjoy the warmth of the memory for a while. 

The woman who had badmouthed at his back seems to be having a hard-time dealing with her headache. Jaskier's mouths twists shortly. He doesn't want to enjoy the idea, but he is a simple man and sometimes he just needs simple pleasures. Destiny is a bitch. But it can be sometimes in your favor too. Just to spite others. 

The owner catches him before he can step a foot out the door. 

"No breakfast today, Jaskier?" The small man seems invigorated, Jaskier notices. His cheeks are red, and although he looks like he hasn't slept a wink, it doesn't seem to weight on him. The bard can only guess that's what happens when your business is so successful that you're assured to have customers straight there for breakfast, even after a good night of fun. Jaskier shakes his head. 

"Not even talking are you?" The man laughs "You didn't push it that much last night though!" 

Jaskier feels a pang in his heart. He knows the man didn't mean it as a complaint, that he enjoyed the songs, but the bard can't help the rush of guilt and shame at not having done his best, having given his all, then. He could have tried to sing a bit more. He should have maybe...at this point. 

Jaskier shrugs, trying to shake away the constraining feeling in his throat. He doesn't even pretend to open his mouth.

The man notices, of course he does. 

His eyes narrow, flickering between the silent bard and the downpour hiding half the town in mist and pounds of rain. "And you're going out in such a weather." Jaskier's smile is tight, he tries to shrug the concern off, but the man is not one to be duped. "Now, young man, what's this all about?" He says as he leans forwards. 

Jaskier looks wide-eye at the man. The owner comes closer and Jaskier is thrown back to the time when he was a child and his master of music had caught him trying to get out of the music tuning class. He feels small, and young again. Instinctively he raises his hands and opens his mouth, ready to speak, but even that action is already too much for whatever his throat has and instead of joyfully croaking his way through an explanation, that he just needs to pop by the apothecary, a silly cold is nothing, he is fine, Jaskier finds himself bent in two, coughing wetly into his hand, lungs rattling from the sharp intake of breath he had taken. 

He doesn't really follow after that, just knows he has a fair fit at the door of the inn, that trying to control it only makes it worse and that he soon finds himself guided to a stool, the sore taste of copper on his tongue. 

Well. He didn't think it would be that bad, to be honest.

He smiles disarmingly at the owner, who has pushed him to sit, hoping it conveys the issue at hand. "Dear boy" the man swears "what on earth happened?". Jaskier only shrugs. He thinks he'll stick to that for now. The man shakes his head. "Suli!" he calls suddenly, making Jaskier jump in his seat. He hears a bit of shuffling behind him and finds himself under the scrutinizing gaze of the woman from the previous night. She is still frowning at him. Jaskier feels cornered and raises his hands higher. 

"No need to be so loud, old man..." she mutters, bending to be eye-to-eye with the bard. Jaskier feels his face pale a bit when she critically glances at his throat. Her dark eyes are cold, and she emits the same temperament as a witch Jaskier would rather forget. Judgemental, never contented, and uncaring of other's thoughts. There is an urge scratching at his hands to just close around his throat, protect it from the look of that woman. 

She straightens, raising a hand to her eyes as she speaks "He sang too much yesterday" she deadpans, voice low."Come, Bard" she takes his arm in a strong grip and then look at the inn's owner. "I'll take him to Swietomierz. We both need it."

Jaskier is dragged outside and he still isn't sure he followed at all. 

\- - -

He ends up spending the day at that Swietomierz house because the rain doesn't let up and he isn't allowed to leave under such weather, at least that's what the glowing glare he finds himself the end of tells him. 

Swietomierz's house is the apothecary. It's dry and dusty, and warm from the permanent fire running in its backroom. It's also filled to the brim with bottles, bones and ladders leaning haphazardly against shelves and rows of drawers. There is a dizziness to it, everywhere Jaskier looks his gaze is found wanting, to know more, to see more. And the smells, all those herbs, their scents and their designs, his mind is running wild at the hint of possibilities these feelings brings, the creation of a great thing. It's trying. And so Jaskier closes his eyes, and let's himself be lulled by the scratching of the pen on paper, the sand dripping in the hourglass and the tip-toeing pop of the rain on the shop's great windows. 

The change in atmosphere, from the wetly clogged streets to that stuffed shop, had not been Jaskier's greatest entrance to say the least.

The woman with the permanent frown, even when she isn't drunk, Jaskier learns, is called Suli and is Swietomierz's daughter, herself an herbalist in the making.She had been completely unimpressed with Jaskier when he had followed her in the apothecary and had another fit of cough. But still, she gave him Verbena in a warm cup and made him sat by her side as she did the counts of the day. Scratched her ink out on the large pages. 

Jaskier had tried to pay her, it was only right, she was already welcoming him in her shop, and he might be at the end of his rope but he wasn't down just yet. But no matter, she relentlessly pushed his coins away, going as far as hitting him on the arm with her book of accounts when she saw him slip his money in the register. 

"It's for last night, you idiot" she growls then, hair wild, pushing him back in his chair. "We didn't give you any coin, that's the least I can do." Jaskier doesn't want to know how pitiful he must look if he manages to receive compassion from an half-working shop in the middle of nowhere.

He tries to thank her properly a few time, but the cough hasn't let up and every breath he pushes causes him to struggle for a good minute afterwards. She just eyes him blankly and shakes her head. 

The sun is about to set down when the rain finally stops. It dawns on him then, that although this day had been listless, and it had somehow been enjoyable, time still passes and life goes on, out there. He thinks of the inn, his lute, and the night in the making. Jaskier gets up, reverently giving her cup back to Suli. She watches him and turns around. 

"You're good to take that for at least a few more days" she throws a couple of Verbena's bottle at him. He fumbles with them, despair and fear overwhelming his tired limbs. He can't help the smile he sends her way when he successfully secures the bottles in his arms. It's stupid, sure, but hey, he did it. She smiles back, her eyes slightly lighter than before. Jaskier wonders if she had somehow noticed, his sad little meandering in the darkest places of his mind earlier. The thought tightens the line on his face and he looks down. He doesn't want to weight her with his sad excuse of a life. It has happened before, that he would be left voiceless for a couple of days at a time, but he usually had always managed to gather a few coins to the side, or at least secure a room at a friend's...He will just have to suck it up and be on his way this time. Nothing to be despaired about. He nods at her again, and turns to the door.

"Just be thankful it wasn't worse." Suli calls at his back.

Jaskier stops, his hand hovering over the handle of the door. Worse. It could be worse? He looks over his shoulder, alert. 

She sighs. "If your throat is hurt, it could impact your internal balance after a while. You managed the bottles so you've still got some leeway. But be careful. Or it could be bye bye standing up and walking around. You better take it nice and easy for now". 

Jaskier eyes-widen. No one had ever said anything about that before, but it explained some things. She rolls her eyes. "Just don't go out under that rain more than necessary and you'll be good to go in a few days for sure." The bard swallows, nodding again absently. His mind is reeling. Options, he needs options. He needs to calm the hell down too. But maybe later. In the end, Jaskier can't say anything, and for once he is grateful, because he wouldn't know what to say to that. The advice was nice. But he won't really have a choice, rain or not, he will have to be out of the way for the night. So he's fucked. Well and truly.   
It had been a while. 

His heart has started pounding, and his ears seem ready to buzz his hearing out of commission. Jaskier bends forward, trying to convey in a final salute his thankfulness again. If he uses that as an excuse to not let her see his eyes again, that's his to know. The tingling there is becoming more acidic by the second, and he wants to choke down the sobs that threaten to come out. 

As he turns back around to open the door to the shop, he finds himself grasping at the air, where the handle was but a few seconds ago.

"Well,well, well" someone sing-songs. 

Jaskier blinks stupidly, trying to clear his sight. He knows that voice. He knows that tone. He glances up, and, as he stumbles back a step or two, he feels his face blanch. Maybe his balance was already touched in the end.

In front of him, critically looking him up and down stands the sorceress of his dark nights, Yennefer. As if he didn't already feel cursed enough. Her black coat is dripping heavily as she walks in the apothecary. "Jaskier" she smiles sweetly at him, although it doesn't reach her eyes "still alive then". 

The voice, the manners, Jaskier feels slightly out of focus at her entrance. She waltzes in, looking about half in disinterest, half with an expert eye, humming under her breath. Oh. That's the coin thing. His song. Jaskier's head seems to be turning a bit and he can't really take any conscious decision as to what to do next. 

So he doesn't move, and watches, instead, as Yennefer comes to buy a few herbs. 

Jaskier watches. Yennefer's fingers are drumming impatiently on the countertop. Jaskier's eyes are roaming. She can feel it but he doesn't really care much at that point. He focuses, on so many things. There is a stain of blood on the inside of one of her sleeves. He ears Suli mutter. Comfrey, ground shellfish, honeycomb. 

Laughter bubbles up his chest, amazed that Suli doesn't comment on the fact that those herbs, potent as they are, are only useful to cure wounds. Deep ones. 

Jaskier's head reels. He knows those herbs, he had to. Clearly Yennefer is still alive and kicking so it's not for herself. The only reason Jaskier came to know these herbs and their effects was after following Gerald for such a time. 

Fuck, he thinks. Fuck. 

He blindly reaches for the door again when he hears the sorceress. "Where are you going, Jaskier? Have you lost your tongue? I've known you more talkative than that to an acquaintance like myself." She jokes, eyes cutting into his face.

Jaskier's shoulders tighten. He hopes she can't read him as well as he can others. Acquaintance my ass, he thinks bitingly. He can't afford to let her nose around his business. That would bring her too much enjoyment. He is rarely one to take that away from people, but some souls are just good at sucking on ohter's misfortune. He never really had a good talk with Yennefer, but he doesn't think he falls far when he says that she's one of them. His fingers grasps for the handle and he pushes the door open. 

Suli, unconscious of the tension, says "Oh, Jaskier can't speak unfortunately." 

Jaskier turns around at that, jaw squarred and eyes boiling with rage. Yennefer doesn't need to know. This serpend doesn't need to know anything about him. He glares as he catches the sorceress's inquisitive look. And Suli keeps up "Oh, it's only temporary, you know. But well, he can't answer you for now..." she seems to realize something's up when she catches Jaskier's posture and Yennefer slow smile. 

Suli looks at them, before scratching her throat and saying in a distorted voice "will that be all?". Jaskier feels bad for her, he can see the guilt rushing up her face. She wasn't supposed to found herself in this, whatever the hell it is. Jaskier is too tired to even try to understand, at this point. 

Yennefer doesn't leave Jaskier from her sight. "Here" she hands a few coins, not even looking at the other woman. And Jaskier, under that piercing gaze, finds himself unable to move. There is rage burning in his limbs, his throat closing more than ever before, but there is also fear lurking. Under that gaze, he feels helpless. A problem to be solved. A curse to be broken. A disease to be cured. 

And Yennefer just looks. 

And Jaskier feels his stand crumbling. Usually, he is resourceful in those moments. Usually, he speaks and speaks, voicing grand worlds inside an aura of extravaganza, and the audience listens, no matter their first aims, they listen and get side-tracked easily enough. But now...There is no sound he could utter, no words to charm off the intent gaze, to spell with a note or two of his voice a mask over his current predicament. The pressing knowledge that his voice, his only weapon, is currently unavailable to him, gives all the more strength to this feeling of vulnerability. 

And Yennefer looks on, a smile on her red lips. 

She finally walks up to him, her purchases under her arms. "I'm guessing you're staying at the inn too. I've seen your Lute in the bedroom next to ours when the maid was changing the sheets." she stresses the ours, looking down at him, just to point out that, yes, indeed, Geralt is with her. Bitch. "Come then, Bard! I can't wait to hear that one" she laughs out loud as she goes through the door, coat sweeping the wooden floor in a flourish. 

Jaskier watches the dust take off, and isn't she now the one shoveling shit in his path. He wants to slam the door with all his strength, but as he goes to do just that, Suli calls back to Yennefer again "Please, make sure he stays long enough to sing again. He has a few songs in debt to us!". Her voice is sweet, faint traces of her night of amusement coloring it. 

Yennefer leers at the bard at those words, but no matter how resentful of that woman Jaskier is, he can't feel but begrudging thankfulness to Suli. So he waves at her, closes the door of the apothecary softly and walks out in the cold, Yennefer waiting for him a few feet away.

Surrounded by the lingering mist of the day, he isn't sure he can face that brand of exceptionable coldness just yet.

"I was honest, bard. I really want to hear that one" Yennefer starts again. 

Jaskier just sends her a dark glare and keeps on walking, his Verbena held close to his chest. 

They walk side by side, and Jaskier, single-minded by his hatred for who he is walking next to, doesn't slow down until he notices the inn's sign hanging in the light of dusk. Fuck. He stumbles a bit, realizing he will have to go in and maybe face the witcher. He can count on Yennefer telling him of his good old friend staying here. Jaskier's grimace worsen when he realizes that he will also have to leave his room for the night.

He tries to not let his throat constrict again and swallows. He closes his eyes at the pain. Yennefer notices, he knows, but she keeps silent, seemingly unconcerned. 

When they walk through the door, they are greeted by the warmth of the fire that has been started again for the evening, the smell of the cooking stew and the sight of a few people scattered at the tables.It's more populated than the past few days, it's livelier. The warmth of the place, the feeling of ease that's settled in these persons' slouch and grins, sends an inkling of anxiety to his heart. Jaskier doesn't want to, but his eyes still cover the entire room and he finds himself exhaling a bit raggedly when he doesn't catch a head of white-hair sitting about. Yennefer nods at the inn's owner and steps up the stairs. Jaskier doesn't follow. 

He stops instead, by the owner, gesturing that he wants to pay for the room. The owner looks at the windows and the bottles in the bard's arms, and quirks an eyebrow at the retreating back of Yennefer. Jaskier doesn't move. He can't. So the owner doesn't say anything and takes his payment without a word. "Hope to see you back soon, Jaskier. In better health!" He calls after him when Jaskier goes to the stairs too. Jaskier waves at his back. He doesn't have the strength for more, right now. 

He wonders if he's become a coward. It's the second time this day he doesn't entirely acknowledges the people around him, even though he knows he won't see them again. He wonders, with every step he takes, if he's a coward when surrounded by entities he knows are more powerful and more capable, and just...more, than he could always be. 

There is a wave of relief, and a sting of disappointment too, as he reaches the landing and there's not a witcher in sight.Jaskier stands there for a bit, catching his breath and just trying to enjoy the empty hallway. He does try. But it just doesn't feel right. 

He swallows hard and rubs at his chest. 

It's fine, he thinks. Completely fine. Geralt was quite clear after all. And the witcher, he isn't one to come back on his word. He wanted him out of his way. That's what he got. Jaskier thinks it's just right. He doesn't want to admit that the muffled voices coming from the room next to him tend to hinder that train of thoughts. 

He shakes his head and goes to pick his bag and his lute in the room, not bothering to close the door. He will be out of here before anyone will know it. 

His ears are ringing a bit, he notices. He can hear his heartbeat. Maybe because of Yennefer. He focuses on that. Yennefer. The sorceress. Seeing her always brings him back to their first encounter, and he feels his usual persistent and cheerful spirit falters a bit. He doesn't like thinking badly of people. He found, recently, that no matter what, there are always two sides to a story. And who are we to judge, anyway, when there's a war in the making. 

It's just, it never sat well with him that he had been unconscious around her. The sorceress. He knew what she had made Geralt do. And Geralt was already so much more than him. And she is just always so frightening, so confident, so entitled. He is completely powerless next to her, a bird easily caught in the net of her whims. He feels doomed, with just his voice to fend off her tricks. So without it...

Jaskier takes a few drops of Verbena straight on his tongue, grimacing at the acid taste it leaves him with, before carefully placing the bottles between some clothes. He hopes his throat, and his lungs, and his ears will leave him be for a while. Yennefer too. Geralt...

So intent is he in adjusting his lute to his back that he doesn't notice the shadow at the door of his bedroom. He thinks, about the night, the time he has, the moon-type, the weather... It's only as he turns around, walking to the door, that for the second time that day he stumbles back to avoid walking into someone else. 

"Leaving already?" Geralt grumbles at him, leaning heavily against the door frame. 

Jaskier blinks at him. His white-hair are still a mess, and his armor is in shambles, and there are dark circles under his eyes, yet again. He grits his teeth. Jaskier thinks it would have been less painful to have been entirely ignored by the man if they had crossed path. His worth had taken enough hits from him in the past, he can't be sure it had been entirely restored either. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Right. Can't speak. Something else then.

His mouth thins. Well, there is no reason why Geralt should be the only one using grunts and shits to express himself. So Jaskier looks over Geralt's shoulder and shrugs with a closed face. 

Geralt's eyes narrow, tilting himself forward. "You really can't speak"

And Jaskier feels shame and rage creep up his lungs again. How dare he- as if Jaskier would ever lie or act up about this kind of things, this very specific thing. He knew people to believe him superficial, and attention-seeking, and manipulative on the side. That comes with being a musician for hire, with being - himself, he knows. The involvement, the curiosity, the over-the-top behavior, the love he has too much of. That comes with the sparks and the glinting lights that show an ideal, a world in the making, a dream. 

Jaskier thought that was people, people only. The lack of faith in Geralt's words, as if Jaskier would easily lie to him - it's too painful to dwell on.

Jaskier doesn't have time for that. 

He doesn't acknowledge the words and decides to push past Geralt, not even realizing fully that Geralt actually lets him push past with a grunt, his hand gripping on the frame of the door for support. Jaskier catches Yennefer's eyes, alight, the sorceress leaning against the wall of the corridor. He hopes to all the gods that would listen to him that she senses the slug of rightful resentment he feels for her now when she sees his pupils. 

He goes down the steps with intent. He doesn't care about these people. It doesn't matter. He is fine. They don't like him. They don't appreciate him. 

Jaskier is fine. That's it. 

He is fine. 

But he doesn't make it two steps before there is a heavy sigh and an arm wrenches his shoulder backward. He stumbles up the steps and almost loses his balance before being caught by a heavy hand at his collar. Jaskier is breathless from the vertigo that overtook him. He blinks. 

Geralt is holding him up at the top of the stairs and looks at him closely. The shimmering eyes that rack his face, the hand that tightens on his shirt. Jaskier struggles in his grip, his throat hurting with the panic settling in his heart. He doesn't want to, but there it is, the slight impression of fear that courses in his fingertips, to his heart. He finds himself replaying the witcher's last words to him, that he would like for him to just be taken off his hands. He feels the witcher's arm pressing on his lungs too, and that's the tipping point. 

He would never hurt Geralt, no matter what. Hell, if lead to it, he is pretty sure he would never hurt Yennefer either, although that's another bag of cats he isn't ready to deal with yet. The thing is, he could never hurt his friend, or his acquaintances, no matter what they do to him. 

But he is human, and there is a rampant instinct, and that deeply stupid entitled idea that every human has, that they have a pride and they won't go down without a fight. Unhinged as he is, the Verbena rooted in his system by now, there is also the feeling that he wants to make Geralt proud, and he wouldn't be proud if the bard were to just give up there and now. 

Jaskier can't really call out, throat raw and painfully dry, and so, in his panicked mind,he does the next best thing - and kicks out. He feels like hysterically laughing, a man placing the noose for his own lynching. It's terrifying. And the hand leaves him, and he crumbles against the wall. 

Jaskier doesn't really understand, as he heaves and counts, certain he is breathing his last. He has hit Geralt, strangely enough. He has hit Geralt and Geralt, instead of bashing his head in, is bent over his stomach, grunting. 

That's unexpected by and of itself enough. 

Jaskier counts, and looks, feeling drained and amazed at the same time, because he hit Geralt, and there is air wheezing sickly out of him and he doesn't really think anymore just notices but his lungs seem to be protesting the excitement. 

He's hit Geralt.   
Geralt has let him. 

Suddenly, there is a clatter and the owner calls from downstairs. 

"Hoy! I don't want trouble in my inn!" 

"It's nothing. Just stubborn wrecks." Yennefer calls back, rolling her eyes. Jaskier looks at her, and Geralt, waiting. The sorceress seems to feel this indecision, so she straightens up and goes to the two men, robes whispering on the floor. 

Jaskier doesn't know which danger to look out for. Yennefer coming, or Geralt.He vaguely wonders how on earth he is still alive. 

But Geralt is still bent over, obviously struggling to regain his breath, and Jaskier becomes suddenly aware that his own rattling lungs don't sound so hot either. Yennefer grasps his arm, pulling him up and, taking Geralt's elbow in her other hand, she pushes them into a room. 

"You're both idiots, just so we're all on the same track" she seethes at them before pushing them further and onto the bed. 

If he could, Jaskier would protest that he hasn't asked for anything and that she could actually leave him well enough alone thank you very much. However, his breath keeps on rattling inside his lungs. So he contents himself with gesturing at Geralt in an exasperated manner. That's already more than she would have pulled out of him before, and he is a firm believer that his benevolence should be at least noted if not praised. 

Geralt, for his part, has crumbled on his side and is lying down without another grunt. Jaskier glances at him, a nagging worry that he would like to quench somersaulting at the back of his aching mind. He straightens in his seat. Grunting or not, Geralt doesn't deserve his attention. He doesn't want it. So, there. 

Jaskier sees the sorceress. Yennefer just looks amused. 

"You're pitiful when you can't talk." she smirks at him "Where is your Verbena?". 

Jaskier frowns and shakes his head. "You need to drink at least a cup, if you want for that to calm down." She sounds so much like the mother of reason, Jaskier wants to hiccup. 

He shakes his head again. He doesn't need her. He can manage by himself.   
He would never allow her near him again, anyway, if that's how well she cured him the first time around.

"Why can't you speak?" Geralt growls finally, muffled by the pillow his head is on. Jaskier sends him a dark glare. Geralt doesn't even flinch, the bastard. He just looks back. The witcher looks as bad as Jaskier feels, ruffled feather and all. He wants to smirk at that, out of spite for the man he once called his friend. He is so proud of his insight that he doesn't even notice the sorceress walking near him. 

She is suddenly tugging on his bag and taking it off him, and he flinches pathetically. He tries to shrug her off, but she has the upper hand, and he feels light-headed when she steps away with it and starts looking through it. He raises his hand before letting himself fall back on the bed, a rag-doll if there ever was one. 

His head isn't right, that much is true. He tries to massage his eyes but apart from giving him more stars to see it's not helping much. It's strange, how calm it makes him feel, to not see, just let his sight be for a while. He feels for the movements in the air, brushing wind on his cheeks, and the cracking of the wood. 

Oh. That's coming closer. 

Yennefer is above him when he opens his eyes and Geralt seems to have come to a sitting position too. She sneers at him and shakes a bottle from the apothecary in her hand. "Two drops every other hour. Or a cup every five. Not more. Not less. Is that too difficult for you?"

Jaskier feels incapacitated enough that he doesn't even care for decorum anymore and sticks out his tongue at her. She doesn't even deem it necessary to reply. She shakes her dark hair and her lips are pressed in a disapproving moue. Jaskier hasn't felt that low in a while. 

"Are you cursed again?" 

Jaskier feels his blood leave his face at Geralt's tone.There they went again. As if he had done anything to deserve the curse in the first place. He struggles to sit himself up, breathes out what he hopes can be heard as a "fuck you" and goes to stand up again. He is but human, and there is only so much of self-flagellation one soul can take. 

He doesn't care for those two. 

He can't go far though, in his haste and single-mindedness. Geralt, again, catches his arm and tugs him back down forcefully. And although that bastard has been holding his midriff since he's been on the bed, it doesn't seem to have incapacitated him that much. Jaskier feels acrimonious and doesn't want to dwell on the idea that even hurt badly, Geralt can still go around being, well, Geralt, while he has to flounder and can't even work and earn his living when he so much as gets a sore throat.

That's not fair, he thinks darkly. 

"So?" asks Geralt again "Are you cursed?" 

Bastard. Uncomprehending bastard. Jaskier just shrugs him off and sits at the far end of the bed, hands crossed over his chest. A sorceress and a witcher. No point running out now. His belongings are behind Yennefer and he doesn't want to get any closer to her than necessary. Geralt, being Geralt, could very well jump on him to prevent him from leaving. He doesn't have the strength to endure bruises.

Yennefer comes back with a steaming cup, clearly spelled, and hands it to him with disdain. 

"Men. You really can't take care of yourself." She distractedly waves a hand in the air, and Geralt hisses. She looks back at Jaskier "Did you sing too much last night? Or did you get on the wrong side of a man with clear magical powers after flirting with his wife, sister or daughter, take your pick" she asks, blinking innocently at him. 

Jaskier just drinks the burning liquid. If it's poison, it will kill him. Which would be nice. If it's Verbena, it will cure him. Which would be nicer, because then he could hurl insults at the both of them and take his leave. 

Or at least that's what he likes to think of himself doing. Again, friends and hurting and all that. He's a coward. He would rather die. The liquid hurts his tongue but his throat doesn't feel like a spiked windmill anymore. So, Verbena then. Not dying anytime soon. 

He stubbornly looks at the door. He had half a mind to thank Yennefer but catches himself. Who thanks someone for not killing them? Him, apparently. Could be why he can't stop thinking about Geralt and all...

He still sits under both of their inscrutable gazes. He doesn't want to think about the fact that no matter what he goes through because of them, he could never go against them. He still has too much respect for them. Or for Geralt at least. It's still debatable for Yennefer. But his stupid monkey brain does cling onto the Verbena as a point in her favor.

"So, what happened?" Geralt asks. This time, Jaskier is somewhat grateful for the glare that Geralt receives from Yennefer too. He.Can't.Speak. That's not complicated to understand.

Yennefer gestures at Geralt deprecatingly. "This one thought he could take a wyvern out with a knitting needle." Geralt growls at her but she keeps on talking, uncaring for the angry witcher sitting a foot away "Now, the question is why you can't speak. If you didn't sing too much, and it's not a curse-" 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. Let him be please. As if they actually cared.

Yennefer sends him a calculating look, planting herself in front of him. "It's not a new curse" She looks at him fixedly. "Why the stink eye? Ah. It's that old one, isn't it?" 

There is a grunt and then "the old one? I thought you had dealt with it!" Geralt growls out suddenly "You -"

Yennefer rolls her eyes and picks at her nails. Jaskier feels in awe. Geralt is still growling. And yet. She has a braveness he has rarely seen around Geralt. He thinks he might have mistaken that peculiar stance for showing off at first, and then kicks himself mentally. As powerful as she seems to be, Geralt wouldn't be a threat to her, magically speaking. "I dealt with it." she snickers instead "But it did take you more than one hour to come to me, once he got hurt. So there were bound to be consequences. He did get his throat tore up quite thoroughly" She glances at Jaskier. "Is that it? Humidity and cold tend to play a lot on old used human bones. I wouldn't know myself but that's what I've been told." 

He doesn't look back, opting to watch the door instead as he finishes dutifully his cup and throws it back at her. She catches it unimpressed. "The curse it is then" she deadpans.

He feels Geralt moving by his side. 

"Jaskier -" 

He can't take it. Not the pity again. He can't. Jaskier turns to Geralt, fire in his veins. He feels amazing when he declares a proud and loud "Fuck you". It hurts, mentally and physically. But that's enough for him. He likes the idea that he has made the finest point of his entire bardic career, even if it means finding himself bent over, coughing his lungs out and throat burning again. He did it. He stood up to Geralt. He said what he had to say. The pain was worth it, all of it was worth it, the heckling in his throat and the fire bubbling in his lungs. He feels tears at his eyes and fuck no he can't cry in front of either of these bastards. Not after that. 

"Stop being a child. Now." Yennefer grabs him and pulls him up again. "I swear you are impossible. The both of you!" she exclaims viciously, her hand pressed against Jaskier's ribs. There is a heat, and a light, although Jaskier is looking up now because he will not cry. His lungs ease slightly afterwards. It's worth it, even for the dark eyes of Yennefer. 

"I had no idea" Geralt whispers. 

"You never asked" Jaskier can't prevent himself from snapping back. His throat is worse than before and at this point he will need at least three days to be able to sing, but that's it. Fuck them. He smiles at the sorceress who seems ready to tear his head off. Her hands are glowing again and this time, she is less than gentle when she presses her hand to his chest. "It's the last time I help your recovery along. Too much magic and your lungs will be worse off than before." her eyes become two daggers "If you speak again, you'll be coughing blood. " 

Geralt doesn't open his mouth again. Jaskier feels content. 

"Honestly. You two." She looks at them. "I'm going to go and ask for supper. You-" she gestures at them both "better both be sitting right here when I come back. You-" she points at Jaskier and the bard suddenly feels a breath of wind over his face, tries to opens his mouth, finds he can't and glares at Yennefer "-no talking anymore."

"And no fighting!" She adds as she leaves the room in the billowing of her robes.

They stay silent. 

Jaskier stubbornly doesn't look at Geralt although he can feel the man's gaze on him. In his defense, the witcher doesn't find it necessary to say anything either so there they go. He doesn't react when Geralt comes closer slowly, pushing himself with heaviness on the bed covers.  
Jaskier doesn't want to react when Geralt bumps his arm with his.   
When he does it.   
Again. 

Jaskier glares at him. 

"You're okay." The witcher breathes out, relief in his voice.   
And Jaskier feels his throat tighten again, not from the pain, but from the chocking longing that rises in his heart. It's been so long, and it had felt so wrong, and that man just comes back and speaks and looks at him and there goes Jaskier again. 

He lowers his eyes and feels himself subdue, tension rushing out of him after all these infernal minutes of reacquainting himself with these two chaotic balls of idiocy. Geralt bumps his arm again and Jaskier feels himself shaken from the inside. It's been so long since they last saw each other. And he's a sentimental at heart. Geralt is an ass. Even Roach knows that. And maybe it's the Verbena, maybe it's the pain and the tiredness overcoming his limbs, but suddenly Jaskier can't take it. He throws his arms around Geralt, and hugs him with all his might. Geralt shudders at first, but he slowly hugs Jaskier back, chin on the man's head. 

The witcher doesn't know how long they stay like this, lulled as he is by the rhythm of Jaskier's breathing. But when Yennefer comes back up, the innkeeper's children holding the trays behind her, Jaskier has fallen asleep by his side and he just keeps stroking his back. He looks at her. 

"Finally." the sorceress exclaims. She looks at the room, the bed, for two, the children. " I will-" she gestures. 

Suddenly Geralt looks down, at Jaskier, who's still recovering and then up at the sorceress, alarmed. "Yen- please!" he whispers. 

She gauges him, his panicked expression, the man slumped on his side with breath slightly wheezing out of him and rolls her eyes. Men. 

The children are sent out with a sweet she takes from her pocket and she helps Geralt put Jaskier properly on the bed. The bard seems to be clinging to the witcher's coat and it's only Geralt growl that prevents Yennefer from voicing a remark. 

Humans are so vulnerable. 

They eat on the bed, each sitting on one side of Jaskier, talking softly about the next days while he keeps on sleeping, unaware. And maybe the bed is a bit small for the three of them, but it's warmer this way and Yennefer do love the way Geralt suspiciously watches her lay next to his friend. 

"Adorable" she will whisper to him in a kiss "don't worry, witcher, your puppy is safe with me." And even if Geralt sends her a disgruntled glare after, it's worth it.

Just to see the next day, the way Jaskier perks up and, already more alert and at ease, starts gesturing wildly at her back for Geralt to do something when she calls at him "Come on, pup, a long journey is ahead of us! And we wouldn't want to lose you on the way!"

Geralt just growls. And Yennefer smiles.


End file.
